Woo Who?
by Keesha
Summary: This is the fourth in a series about what the Musketeers do in their downtime. This tale can stand alone from the first story called 'Never Too Old to Learn', the second entitled 'Archimedes Principle', and third called 'Locked Up'.
Author's Note:

As always, not mine, just playing. Please feel free to comment, as I am a review junky. Much joy and happiness to my awesome beta JenF who corrects my grammer, offers excellent ideas, and keeps me in check when I delve to deeply trying to find new words (contumeliously). Thanks to Mountain Cat for some assistance too.

* * *

"Leave me alone or I'll shoot you."

"No, you won't," Aramis declared with confidence, until he looked over at the surly man sitting at the table in his room. "Well, perhaps I'm wrong, but how would you explain it to Treville?"

The answer was delivered with the utmost sincerity and confidence. "Unfortunate accident."

"You're serious." Aramis exclaimed, as he placed his hands on his hips and frowned at Athos. "We all agreed to participate. You promised."

Athos corrected him, resolutely. "I did not promise." Picking up the glass of wine in front of him, he polished off the last mouthful before refilling it from the nearly empty bottle resting on the table.

"You did not, not promise, either." That earned Aramis an eye roll and annoyed huff from his friend and it wasn't for the use of the double negative in the statement. The marksman decided to try changing his tactics. "Please," he wheedled like a five-year-old boy. "You know it is the right thing to do."

A small muscle involuntarily twitched in Athos' jawline that his beard didn't hide from the eagle eye of Aramis. "Ah ha!" the marksman crowed gleefully. "I'm right."

"Whether or not you are right is not the point," Athos responded haughtily, as he picked up the wine glass to drink.

"Then what is the point?" d'Artagnan queried with curiosity from his perch on the window ledge across the room.

Athos deliberately emptied his glass, then looked at Aramis even though he was addressing the Gascon's question. "The so-called skill he proposes to teach us is of no value."

"So says the man who didn't even recognize when it was being employed upon him," Aramis interjected sarcastically.

The narrowing of the cool green eyes told his brothers, who were experts after five years at deciphering his non-verbals, that Athos knew exactly to whom they were referring, namely the lovely Comtesse de Larroque.

"He's got a point, Athos. I wasn't so sure at first, but then Aramis explained it to me," Porthos confessed with a lop-sided grin.

"Yeah, he's right," d'Artagnan concurred, rounding out the vote. "Aramis and I immediately comprehended what was going on. You on the other hand..." The Gascon shrugged to complete his thought.

Feeling the need to defend his honor, Athos rationally explained, "I was solely focused on the mission and did not allow myself to be...distracted." The three head shakes he received told him they weren't buying into that tale, so he lowered his head and scowled into his wine glass.

Aramis examined the slouching form, thoughtfully. "I suppose I could make a case for your obtuseness."

Athos was pretty sure he was about to be insulted by his so-called friend, so he kept his head lowered.

"After all," Aramis continued benignly, "it is a subtle art form."

"Exactly," d'Artagnan concurred with the marksman's comments, enjoying the teasing being aimed at his mentor.

''Says the man who goes at it like an overly friendly dog," Porthos joshed with a devilish grin.

d'Artagnan wasn't happy that somehow, he was the new target for the heckling and he immediately grew indignant. "I do not!"

"Yes, you do." Porthos brought his hands up in front of his chest, curled them under, stuck out his tongue, and started to pant. His imitation of a begging dog was remarkably on point.

Aramis walked over and compassionately placed his hand on the lad's shoulder, even though he continued with the harassment. "He's right. You are a tad, shall we say, overzealous."

"Like a friendly, shaggy, dog that keeps licking you to show you how much he likes you," Porthos tagged on to Aramis' statement.

Glancing over at Aramis, Porthos declared, "See, I knew the moniker 'pup' suited him."

While Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan entered into a spirited debate over the usage of pup to describe the lad, Athos decided he had had enough. The swordsman brusquely pushed aside his now empty wine glass and rose to leave.

"Whoa." Aramis broke off from the debate, spun around, and blocked Athos' pathway to the door forcing the man to draw up short.

Though he didn't utter a word, everything about Athos silently demanded Aramis to move, however, the marksman steadfastly held his ground.

"There is no value in this," Athos impatiently growled, his eyes glaring at his brother who was impeding his progress to depart.

Aramis studied his brother for a moment before noticing that those chameleon green eyes contained more than simple anger, but also anguish and a touch of fear. Instantly, the marksman felt contrite. How could he have been so insensitive to the fact that this would be painful for his beloved brother given his history? But after a few more moments, he decided no matter how harsh it might seem Aramis wasn't going to let Athos bully his way out of this lesson. Aramis truly felt he would be able to help his friend move past his self-imposed isolation and open himself to the possibility again.

Letting a gentle smile curve on his handsome lips, Aramis soothingly placed his hands on Athos' shoulders and bent his head forwards to have a private conversation. "I know you have been hurt in your past, but there is a world out there that contains happiness for you if you'd open yourself to it."

Athos found himself wondering, as he had many times in the past, how he kept letting these men slip past his carefully constructed walls and peer into the core of his soul. He knew the answer too, when he'd allow himself to consider it...love. Those warm brown eyes were offering nothing more than honest compassion and the musketeer found he had unconsciously drawn his lower lip into his mouth to gnaw on it, a habit he thought his father, and tutors, had long ago beaten out of him.

"I'm asking you to trust me, mon ami." Those brown eyes held no duplicity, simply forthrightness and compassion. "I won't let you get hurt."

Aramis could practically hear the gears grinding as Athos desperately tried to raise the gate that protected his battered heart, which had been grievously wounded in the past. Aramis saw the brown ring that surrounded Athos' dark pupils widen and he knew he had won. Maybe not the war, but at least this skirmish.

Removing his hands from Athos' shoulders, he reached out and fondly gripped the bearded man's chin, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I won't push you more than you can handle, brother." With that, he released his hold on the man and walked back towards the center of the room.

Athos stood motionless for a few seconds still conducting his private, internal battle. He could walk out of the room, avoiding what he knew was going to be a painful scenario, or he could trust Aramis and try to fight past his fears. He felt the eyes of his brothers resting on him, not with condemnation, but with warmth and sincerity.

As was his style, he used dry sarcasm to cover his deeper emotions. "Better that firing squad had shot me than this," he muttered, as he crossed back to the chair he had abandoned and dropped into it. "There isn't enough wine to get through this torture," he complained, picking up the near-empty bottle. Raising it to his lips, he drank the last dregs.

"Sorry Athos, but this is a subject best taught while clear headed for it is one of the most complex topics on earth." Aramis moved over and snatched the untouched second bottle on the table, placing it across the room on a chest, well out of the reach of all. "Everyone get comfortable and we shall begin."

d'Artagnan slid off the window sill, joining Athos at the table, and Porthos took the last empty chair. They all turned their eyes upon Aramis, who remained standing in the center of the room. There was no doubt in their minds he was enjoying being the center of attention. For effect, the marksman slowly turned his back on them, dramatically walked over to the vacant window sill, and leaned against it, seemingly studying the scene below.

"So gentlemen, let us learn the art of wooing a woman and conversely..." Without even having to glance over his shoulder, simply knowing by instinct his brother was headed for the full wine bottle, he commanded, "Sit down, Athos." He heard the disgruntled sigh and the creak of leathers as the errant musketeer compiled. "As I was saying, we will examine _both_ the art of wooing a woman and recognizing when a woman is wooing us."

Everyone in the room knew the last comment was squarely aimed at the musketeer at the table who had demonstrated, more than once, his blindness in this particular area.

Dramatically, Aramis turned to face his audience, moving towards the center of the room. "The art of seduction, like any skill, has two components. The first is a natural, God-given talent, which some lucky people, such as myself, are blessed with from birth." Aramis tried to school his face into a mask of pious humility but failed miserably.

"So you are saying you was born charmin'," Porthos flippantly sought to clarify. When Aramis nodded his head, the street fighter gave a little grunt. "So what about the rest of us? Hmmmm?"

"You possess the second component of which I spoke. The ability to learn. You may not have been born charismatic, but with help of a master like me, you can learn. Though I suppose, like floating, there are a few people who may not be able to grasp even the most rudimentary skills.

The marksman's eyes swept over the three musketeers sitting at the table causing Porthos to poke Athos. "You know he is talkin' about you, right? The pup and me, we'll do ok with the ladies."

The swordsman turned a deaf ear to his brother's ribbing, as he slouched deeper in his chair. He had agreed to participate, however, that did not mean he had to do it happily or with good-grace.

Porthos grew thoughtful for a moment then gave Aramis a dimpled grin. "Hey Aramis. You gonna teach us 'the look'?"

d'Artagnan looked askance at Porthos. "The look?" he questioned not sure what the street fighter was talking about.

Athos couldn't stop the involuntary groan that escaped his lips, causing the dimpled grin to grow even larger on Porthos' face.

"Oi. The look." The street orphan dropped his voice an octave. "The stare. Attracts females like ants to honey. Whenever Aramis uses it, watch out..."

"...because it attracts trouble," Athos interjected, grouchily "He gets in trouble, we save him, and that gets us in trouble."

"Oh please, like you two are choir boys when it comes to attracting trouble. How many times have we ended up in hot water because of your gambling, Porthos, or your drinking, Athos?"

The swordsman graciously conceded the point with a quirked eyebrow and head tilt. "Shall we agree that we all have...vices... which on occasion, led to complications?"

Now it was d'Artagnan's turn to snort. "I'm pretty sure if Captain Treville was here, he'd object to the words 'on occasion'."

"You really wanna go there, pup? You might be the newest, but you've already got a good number of entries in Treville's book of misdeeds. Maybe not as many pages as we have racked up, but you ain't no angel," Porthos reminded the farm boy turned musketeer.

"Gentleman," Aramis spoke firmly, "we have veered off course. Let us refocus on the matter at hand. Now, the fairer sex is very complex."

"Tell me something I don't already know," Porthos mumbled, as he reached over to appropriate Athos' wine glass, which turned out to be dry. His eyes sought out the bottle on the table, which he soon discovered was also empty.

"Please." Athos drawled, after Porthos scowled at him, as Aramis droned on about the complexity of women. "That was finished a long time ago."

"There were two. Where's the second bottle of wine?" Porthos demanded, his eyes roaming the empty table top.

"He took it away. Said we had to be sober." Athos' eyes looked unbelievably morose as he uttered those words.

Porthos frowned at Athos. "You drank the whole first bottle of wine, didn't you? That's not fair."

"Trust me. It wasn't enough," Athos replied, drily as he slumped dejectedly in his chair.

Aramis noted that d'Artagnan was the only one listening to his pontification, so he ceased speaking, folded his arms over his chest, and glared at his wayward students.

"Uh-oh. I think we're in trouble with the teacher," Porthos noted, as the withering gaze of Aramis fell upon him and the swordsman who drew his hat down further over his forehead.

With an arched brow, Aramis demanded, "Are you two quite done yet?"

Athos' cool green eyes peered out from under the brim of his brown hat. "Probably not," he answered honestly. "But do, go on."

"As I was saying, with a woman you need to be subtle, yet bold. Compassionate, yet commanding. Tender, yet tough. Wooing a woman is like executing a battle plan. You need to know when to charge, when to retreat, and when to stand your ground. You must be clear of your objectives before entering into the fray. But like a well won battle, the rewards are worth it.

Quickly growing bored again, Porthos turned to whisper some snide comment to Athos only to find the man appeared to be snoozing. The swordsman's eyes were closed and his breathing was low and even. Finding no quarter there, he turned to d'Artagnan instead, who was intently listening to Aramis.

Leaning forward, he whispered in the lad's ear startling him. "Do you understand what he is saying?"

Porthos' breath tickled the lad's ear and d'Artagnan shook his head like a dog to make the annoyance go away.

"Well do ya?" Porthos repeated, as he leaned closer to the lad.

"He's saying that women are...ah...that we should...but then again we shouldn't..." The Gascon came to a stumbling halt, then turned and faced his older sibling. "I have no idea what he is saying," he meekly confessed. His eye roamed past Porthos to Athos. "Is he sleeping?!" the ex-farmer exclaimed much louder than he intended and while it didn't appear to disturb the swordsman it did catch the ear of their lecturer.

Aramis stalked over to the table and slammed his hands down, hard, on the wooden surface in front of the dozing Athos. The bang echoed about the small space, but to Athos' credit, he didn't flinch. "Athos," Aramis scolded the errant sleeper. "You're not paying attention."

"Do that again and I will shoot you."

"And we are back to violence," d'Artagnan said with a frustrated sigh. "Aramis, this isn't working."

"My boy, you are absolutely right. In order to properly teach the art of wooing a woman you need, well, a woman," Aramis declared with conviction. "Right then, field trip."

"We're not goin' to church again are we? Cause I gotta tell you, last time that felt kind of wrong. Pickin' up women in a house of God." Porthos shrugged and ducked his head a bit. "Just sayin''

"I'm not going to a church to woo women," d'Artagnan firmly stated, as he eyed Porthos and Aramis with distaste.

"You apparently don't have too. They pick you up," Athos caustically muttered, apparently done with dozing. He glanced up from under his hat. "My wife to be exact.''

"Athos," Aramis admonished the former Comte whose wife, unfortunately, was not above using her feminine wiles to get what she desired.

"d'Artagnan should feel fortunate. She only sleeps with the best. Nobles. Highly placed religious men. Royalty." Bitterly, he closed his anguished eyes and ran his hand over his face. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan. That was uncalled for." Pushing up from the table, he groaned. "I need to leave."

"No, you don't," Aramis declared firmly. "If we let you go off alone, you are only going to find some tavern and drink yourself into a stupor. Today, I'm not letting you do that. We are going out, together, and practise on real subjects."

"This ain't gonna end well," Porthos muttered to no one in particular, as they corralled Athos between them and headed into the streets of Paris.

As they walked through the semi-crowded lanes, Porthos noted, "Ya know, I don't think we really need lessons from you, Aramis. After all, d'Artagnan has Constance, I had Alice and Flea, and Athos, well technically, he is married. So obviously we all know how to court a lady."

Aramis stopped and stared at his friend. "You know. You have a point. Let's have a contest, instead."

A disgusted expression crossed d'Artagnan face as he vigorously shook his head. "I'm not participating in a contest to seduce an unsuspecting woman. That's wrong."

Now it was Aramis' turn to appear aggrieved. "Surely you don't think that poorly of me. I would never suggest such a debased contest. I have the utmost respect for the opposite sex."

d'Artagnan reached out an apologetic hand and placed it on Aramis' arm. "I'm sorry."

The marksman gave a small head nod to show the apology was accepted. He started walking again and the others fell in to step with him. "In deference to Athos' comment that the skill I'm teaching has no place in the life of a musketeer, I have come up with an idea to show, in fact, it is extremely valuable asset."

Athos gave Aramis a dubious look, while Porthos demanded, "Don't keep us in the dark. How?"

They continued moving through the streets of Paris towards the central market area as Aramis explained his contest. "We often have to interrogate people to successfully complete our missions."

Cracking his knuckles, Porthos grinned. "I like interrogating people."

"Be that as it may, sometimes a subtler approach is required, one that involves another part of the body, other than the fists," Aramis suggested, as he patted his friend on the bicep.

"You mean like head butting? Or kicking? Nah, I like using my fists best," the street fighter declared earnestly.

Aramis gave him a sideways glance. "What I meant was the tongue."

Porthos mind made an incorrect leap of logic and he didn't like where he landed. "That's wrong. I mean that sounds like something the pup would do, but not the rest of us."

"Would you please stop it? First, you compare my seduction technique to that of an overly friendly dog and now you insinuate I fight like one. This has gone quite far enough." d'Artagnan glared at his brothers. "Surely you can find a better sport than picking on me."

The three Inseparables traded one of those glances that served as a powerful nonverbal means of communication for the tightly knit group then as one, turned their eyes upon him.

d'Artagnan looked at their serious faces then sighed in defeat. "Fine. I get it. Pick on the pup it is."

With that settled, Aramis picked up his conversational thread. "The subtle art of verbal persuasion can be employed to obtain information rather than the crude fist-bashing method. It can also be used to get oneself out of a jam."

"Let me see if I have this right. You are saying seducing a woman and lying are one and the same." Athos declared in that polite, matter-of-fact tone he used that basically meant whatever the other person was stating was rubbish.

"As usual, my dear Comte, when it comes to anything involving women, you have come to the wrong conclusion. I'm saying the art of seduction is merely another form of persuasion and persuasion is useful in our line of work."

d'Artagnan thought over Aramis' declaration and had to admit the man did have a point. "I can see his point, Athos."

Aramis touched his forehead in thanks. "Case in point. You, Athos, have been known to use the art of seduction, quite often, on Captain Treville." The raised eyebrows of his brothers that followed his comment had him hastily explaining. "Meaning, that if we agree that wooing a woman is a form of persuasion, then we can further agree when we are lined up in front of the good Captain's desk and you are trying to explain one of our...ah...exploits, you are trying to seduce Treville into believing our version of what occurred."

The slight ducking of Athos' head told Aramis his point had hit home. The swordsman was somewhat of an expert on trying to deflect Treville's censure when they had been accused of stepping over the line.

"I am simply offering the Captain a differing viewpoint that he may have failed to consider," Athos stated, using his Comte voice.

"You're lying to him," Porthos stated, bluntly. "But to protect us, so I get it."

"I prefer to think of it as persuasion and that it has a useful purpose, like keeping us from mucking the stables for the rest of our lives." Athos nearly groaned out loud as soon as the words left his mouth, knowing he had just given Aramis the ammunition needed to seal the deal.

And pounce Aramis did, like a crouching tiger. "You have validated my point, dear Athos. Wooing a woman is a form of persuasion. The ability to persuade people is a useful tool for a musketeer. Therefore, the skill I am teaching may one day save your life."

Athos quirked an eyebrow at the latter part of the statement, but didn't offer a verbal rebuttal, simply deciding to go along with the bizarreness that was Aramis' idea. He had a feeling that one day soon, he would be seducing Captain Treville in an effort to explain why this seemed like a good idea at the time. Sinking back into a brooding silence, he followed along with the group, which had started walking again.

As they entered into one of the bigger market squares in Paris, d'Artagnan noticed how many women there were bustling about the stalls. Logically, he knew it made sense, as women did the daily shopping for their household needs. He followed Aramis over to an ale vender on the fringe of the market who was doing a brisk business on this fine day. Aramis procured four brimming mugs and the musketeers arranged themselves around one of the tall, upright barrels that served as makeshift tables.

"So here's what we are going to do," he began to explain, after he wet his whistle. "Each one of us shall pick out a woman, for the other, from which to glean four pieces of information. Their name, their place of birth, their age, and finally something of which they are ashamed. Failure to return here with all that information is considered a loss." The skeptical looks on his friend's faces told him he had not closed this deal yet, so he sweetened the pot. "The winner's bar tab, for a week, is paid for by the losers."

That got a bit more attention from the participants, as he knew it would. His friends enjoyed competing against each other, especially if a prize were involved. In some cases, bragging rights alone would be enough to get them to play, but he felt in this case, a more tangible prize was in order.

"How do we know that the information being reported back is accurate?" d'Artagnan questioned the marksman. "They," he glanced over at his brothers, "could simply come back here and tell us they received answers to the four questions from the woman and we'd never know if it were true."

The brim of Athos hat dipped slightly lower, as if to indicate he had already been mulling over that exact strategy to win.

"Excellent point, pup. We shall have to send two people at a time. The first person will be the one seeking the information and the second will be a non-participating observer, close enough to hear that the answers are being provided."

Nods from the group indicated that was an acceptable resolution to the quandary.

"Also, you shall surrender your pauldron because as an official of the King's elite guard, a woman might simply answer your inquiries thinking it was for the good of France."

Porthos couldn't help snorting at that comment. "Oi. The King desperately needs the answers to those questions to defend France."

"And," Aramis continued smoothly, "It will offer anonymity should anything we do here today reach the Captain's ears."

"So what you are saying is it will be easier for Athos to seduce the Captain into believing it wasn't us," d'Artagnan summed up, with a grin at his mentor who studiously ignored him and drank his ale.

"Precisely. As the expert in this area, I shall go first and show you how this is done. Gentlemen chose my target." Aramis confidently removed his pauldron, set it on the barrel top, then picked up his mug, and nursed its contents, while his brothers debated on which woman to select.

There were a lot of choices in the busy market. Knowing how charming their flirtatious brother was, they ruled out all the less attractive women, afraid they would be easily swayed by the attentions of a handsome man. It was probably a good thing no woman could hear their chauvinistic selection process because they would have found themselves being cheerfully castrated by the ladies.

Into the discard bucket went all the whores who they believed would also tell him anything for a roll in the hay. Common decency ruled out the underage females. The final selection came down to two women. The first was a very pretty, extremely confident looking woman who appeared, by the way she moved and her interactions with the merchants, to know her worth. She would not be easily swayed by Aramis' charm and would be a good adversary against the cocky musketeer. The female in question reminded the three of the no-nonsense Constance who had, on more than one occasion, been known to put the libertine musketeer in his place both verbally and physically,

The second candidate was an older nun, who appeared to be a rigid, practical, businesslike woman as she plowed through the market place. Their only hesitation in choosing the woman of God was Aramis' own devotion to his maker. Their thought process was that Aramis could use that common ground to build a heavenly-based bridge to get the nun to answer his questions in the name of religion.

Athos abstained from the final vote leaving Porthos and D'Artagnan to make the selection, which was the confident woman. The target was pointed out to Aramis who perked up when he saw her attractiveness. Porthos was assigned as the observer and the two headed into the market place. The target was at a fruit vendor's stall and Porthos, always hungry, paid for an apple then casually stood by the side of the cart munching on it as he eavesdropped on the conversation.

Aramis approached the gorgeous lady and doffed his hat offering her a courtly bow. She eyed him with tolerance, gave him a polite though frosty smile before going about her shopping. Though the two musketeers back at the barrel table couldn't hear what was transpiring, the smirk on the face of Porthos said it all. Strike one.

When the lady was done making her fruit selections and placing them in her basket, she moved off to the bread vendor with a determined Aramis in tow, and a few more paces back, Porthos. He had finished his apple and palmed the core to a dejected looking donkey. At the next stall, Porthos purchased a small pastry to give him a new excuse for lingering at the cart's side as he ate and eavesdropped.

Aramis had no success at the bread cart, nor cheese cart and it all came to an end at the notions vender where the romantic musketeer received a resounding slap from the lady in question. Porthos wasn't sorry to see Aramis' turn coming to an end because it meant the street fighter was one step closer to being the victor. Besides, he was going broke buying food at each cart so he'd have an excuse to linger and listen. The notions cart had been particularly vexing to find an excuse to hang about. He had taken to examining the thimbles, God knows why, mostly he supposed because they were in front of him. He had found them hard to hold with his large, calloused fingers and kept dropping them. Then, somehow, he managed to get one stuck on his forefinger. For a split second, he thought he might have to buy the damn thing because he couldn't get it off. But the stern woman who operated the cart pried it off, gave him a dirty look and he thought the pauldron on his shoulder was the only reason she didn't hit him.

After Aramis received his slap, which clearly ended the contest for him, he wandered rather dejectedly back to barrel where Athos and D'Artagnan where waiting, trying not to appear too gleeful. His friends were kind enough, other than a few smirks they simply could not keep suppressed, not to goad him about his failure. After all, they still had to go and if he struck out, what were their chances?

d'Artagnan offered to go next and the other three began the selection process again. They ruled out all the matronly women feeling their motherly instincts might kick in upon seeing the puppy dog eyes the Gascon had. They settled upon a rather nervous, fussy looking lady.

When the Gascon saw whom they had chosen for him, he winced with discomfort. The woman reminded him of a highly-strung horse, likely to spook at the smallest thing, and cause a huge commotion. He'd have to be suave and cautious in his approach if he didn't want her running for the hills.

Aramis was assigned as his observer. As d'Artagnan handed over his pauldron, he suddenly felt rather naked which did not help his confidence level. Giving himself a strong pep, talk about the man making the uniform not the other way around, he set off across the market place with Aramis in tow. As he was approaching the tense woman, the strap on her basket gave way, spilling the contents in the dirt. Immediately, he gallantly sprang forward to assist in picking up her strewn objects and received a resounding smack on the head from the woman's broken basket.

"Thief. Thief. This street urchin is trying to steal my goods," the woman screeched at the top of her lungs.

Wincing and rubbing a hand over the spot on his head where she had whacked him, he tried to reassure the frantic woman. "I assure you, Madame, I was only attempting to help retrieve your lost items."

However, she was not having any of it. "You probably cut the strap on my basket." She took her first good look at him and her hands fluttered to her neck and her voice hitched. "You are armed," she said with horror. "You were probably going to use that sword to slit my throat."

The Gascon glanced down at his sword, and in doing so, turned slightly causing the woman to gasp even louder.

"There. There it is!" she exclaimed.

"There what is?" d'Artagnan asked, spinning around to look for some danger behind him.

"On your belt. The knife you used to slit the handle on my basket."

d'Artagnan held both hands away from his body and his weapons as he tried verbally to reassure and soothe the hysterical woman. "Madame, I swear to you I didn't slit the handle of your basket. I'm a musketeer. I'm trying to help you."

His speech didn't have quite the anticipated calming effect he had been going for, though the woman did stop screaming and started laughing instead.

"Dear Lord. You? One of the King's musketeers?" She was cackling so hard that tears ran down her face. "Not only a thief, but a delusional one at that."

The Gascon stood up straight and tall. "I am a musketeer," he insisted, which caused the woman to start laughing again and even worse the people around her joined in. His eyes sought out Aramis, who was standing at the edge of the crowd, smiling. "Aramis, tell them who I am."

The eyes in the crowded rotated to stare at the musketeer and as soon as the woman saw his uniform and the newly replaced pauldron, she started screeching once more. "You, musketeer, arrest this thief."

Aramis made his way through the crowd to approach the woman and d'Artagnan. When he drew near, he swept his grand, grey feathered hat from his head and offered the woman a courtly bow. "How may I be of service, Madame?"

The woman started to preen under the attention being showered on her by Aramis. "This man cut the handle on my basket in an attempt to steal my things."

"I see," Aramis said in a deep voice, studying d'Artagnan as if he were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Appalling."

"Aramis," the Gascon pleaded. "Tell her who I am."

"He thinks," the woman whispered confidentially, "that he is a musketeer. Shocking isn't it that he thinks the King would let someone like him in his elite guard."

"Absolutely shocking," Aramis agreed, as he placed a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder. Charm was oozing out of every one of his pores, as he sympathetically listened to the woman rant and rave. He made all the right noises, in all the right places, and had the woman eating out of his hand.

d'Artagnan, meanwhile, was growing more and more aggravated at his friend's antics. "Aramis. Tell her who I am. If I am not a musketeer, than how do I know your name? Hmmm?"

The woman, who was quite a bit shorter than Aramis, gazed up at his kindly brown eyes. "Is your name Aramis? That is a lovely name."

Aramis totally ignored d'Artagnan's question and beamed a mega-watt down upon the woman making googly-eyes at him. "Why thank you, Madame. And if I may be so bold as to inquire, what is your name?"

"Jeanette," she simpered, a pink blush staining her wrinkled cheeks.

"What a lovely name. I need a few more pieces of information, if I am to file a proper report. Where were you born, Jeanette?" he inquired, as he patted her shoulder.

"Right here in Paris," she happily informed him, practically melting under his attention.

"Lovely and you are what, twenty years old, Mademoiselle?"

Again, the faint blush painted her wrinkled cheeks and she playfully slapped him on the arm. "What a tease you are, Aramis the Musketeer. No, I am forty-eight last May."

"Well," Aramis crooned, "I'd never known. However, I am shamed," he let his smile turn into a sad face, "I couldn't stop this from happening." He waved his hand at her scattered goods on the ground. "So very ashamed. I, the King's musketeer, allowed this to happen to such a lovely woman right under my nose."

"There, there," she said patting him on the arm. "We all do things we are ashamed of now and then. Once," she lowered her voice, confidentially, "I accused the baker of cheating me out of a baguette. Made a big fuss, I did. Only later, I found it in the bottom of my bag. I felt so ashamed, but I just couldn't make myself go and apologize."

"It happens to the best of us. Even King's musketeers," he sincerely assured her. "Now, let me help you gather your things and then I'll take this boy away."

"Heaven-forbid. A musketeer, picking up my items. No, you go arrest this thief and throw him in jail for his crimes. I can gather my own things.'

Replacing the hat on his head, he offered her a small bow again. "He shan't bother you again. You have my word, Jeanette."

Marching over, he grabbed the stunned d'Artagnan by the arm and dragged him away.

"You are enjoying this, aren't you?" d'Artagnan griped, as he allowed his friend to haul him through the crowd. "Would it have killed you to tell her I was a musketeer?"

"That would have been in violation of the rules. At the time, you weren't a musketeer."

"You know," D'Artagnan stated, when they arrived back at the barrel, "that doesn't count as a win for you."

"But I got her to answer all the questions. Jeanette, from Paris, age forty-eight, who is ashamed she once accused the baker of cheating her out of a loaf of bread."

"Pup's right. Don't count. She was the lad's target. Not yours. And she knew you was a musketeer." Porthos tapped on Aramis' pauldron. "Makes 'em talk."

With a huff, Aramis conceded. "Ok, your turn, Porthos. Who shall we choose for you?"

Athos, who hadn't been participating much in the selection proceedings up to this point, suddenly took an interest. "Her." He pointed to a rather fragile looking young woman.

Porthos took off his pauldron and headed across the market, not waiting to hear who'd be shadowing him.

"Hey," d'Artagnan called after him. "We haven't assigned your observer."

Athos waved his mug through the air in a rather negligent manner. "No need. He'll be right back."

Sure enough, the senior musketeer of the group was correct. As Porthos approached the woman, she took one look at his imposing form and fainted before he could even open his mouth. Sensing a nervous hostility in the crowd that was surrounding the unconscious woman, Porthos, wisely, walked away. He knew he appeared large and imposing, and that the scar over his eye didn't help matters. He had to give credit to Athos for his strategy, for the intelligent man had chosen well.

When he arrived back at the barrel, Porthos sarcastically thanked the swordsman who gave a shrug of indifference. After all, this was a contest and Athos was looking forward to beating his brothers with his plan, which had formed in his mind, as he watched his other brothers fail.

"Ok, Athos. You're last. d'Artagnan shall be your observer," Aramis declared before putting his head together with his other two brothers to choose a target.

Athos confidently waited, arms folded across his chest. He was sure no matter whom they picked for him his plan would succeed.

"We need someone like the Comtesse de Larroque, who can fluster him," d'Artagnan stated as his eyes swept the crowd.

"Maybe his wife," Porthos suggested as his eyes roamed the crowd.

"You mean _like_ his wife. Where are we going to find someone like her?" Aramis groused, as he glanced over at Porthos.

"Not like her. Her."

They all followed his gaze and sure enough, the lady in question was standing at a cloth merchant's stall.

"Is that overly cruel?" d'Artagnan asked, watching as Milady fingered some of the fine material.

"Do you want to pay his bar tab for a week?" Porthos countered, smoothly.

"But she is his wife. Surely, he knows her answers to all the questions," d'Artagnan complained, thinking his mentor would win on a technicality.

"Yes," Aramis conceded, "but he still has to figure out how to make her repeat them. And there is always the last question."

Athos hadn't spotted his wife in the market, so when his brothers rejoined him all smiling like Cheshire cats he suddenly grew worried.

"Your target is there." Aramis pointed with his finger and Athos followed with eyes, then gasped.

"Anne." His eyes sought out Aramis, begging him to explain how this was not cruel.

Aramis moved to Athos' side and placed a hand on his forearm. "You can do this. Break her hold on you."

A cold sweat engulfed his body. She was his addiction and his curse. If he wasn't careful, a smile from her could easily knock him off balance and send him tumbling into the demonic hell he'd built in his mind. He desperately wanted to not do this, yet a part of him was begging to go to her. His ying and yang.

However, never one to back down, he squared his shoulders and gathered his courage. Since she already knew he was a musketeer, he saw no sense in removing his pauldron, so he simply rose from his chair and headed in her direction. Though d'Artagnan was supposed to be the observer, all three trailed behind Athos, wanting to hear how this played out.

Like the bond between the Inseparables, Milady still seemed to be able to sense her husband's presence, so when he called out her name, she didn't start, merely regally turned, and set her icy green eyes upon him. "Stalking me, Athos?" she coolly accused, as she swept his body from head to toe. Damn, he could still make her heart race.

"Merely a coincidence, I assure you." To the outside world, he appeared cool, calm, and collected even if he was quivering on the inside.

For a moment, time stood still and his mind wandered back to the happy days they had before she killed his brother. The self-loathing that had plagued him ever since she stood there, knife in hand, over the body of his dead brother forcing him to make an inconceivable decision, rose in his craw. It was a conundrum how a part of him could still love this woman and yet he knew it to be the truth.

"You are looking well," he stated, breaking loose of his inner turmoil. "Life at the palace seems to be agreeing with you." Though he knew it wasn't a wise move to antagonize her, he was unable to keep the petty words from escaping his lips.

The narrowing of her eyes told him she didn't appreciate his comment. "Like most things in my life, it is simply a means to an end."

The barb lodged itself in his heart, as she had intended, inferring her marriage to him was no more than a simple way to get what she had desired – position and wealth. The slight wince told her she'd hit the target dead on. Pushing her advantage as she saw it, she asked bluntly, "Have you sought me out to ask me to stop sleeping with the King?"

"Would you do that? If I asked?" He desperately hoped there was no trace of begging in his voice.

The naivety that very few people ever witnessed in the usual stoic, taciturn man was visible in the tiny spark of hope that flared in his green eyes and the slightest hint of hope in his baritone. His vulnerability was one of the things she had always loved about him and no matter how much he had suffered, deep underneath it all, there was still a minuscule slice of that little boy who just wanted to believe. But, she did what she had always done and crudely squashed his heart.

"Of course not. His Majesty is quite besotted with me." She smiled cruelly, fluttering her fan and her eyes.

The hardened look, the one she had grown accustomed to seeing in his eyes, was back as he gave her a mock bow. "Forgive me for even suggesting what you might be doing was incredibly wrong, not to mention hurtful to the Queen and bad for France. But as long as you are getting what you need..."

"It is not my fault the Queen can't hold the interest of her husband. Perhaps she should take a lover herself. Perhaps Rochefort. He spends more time at the King's side then she. Maybe they need an arrangement."

Porthos and d'Artagnan had to restrain Aramis from jumping forward to accost Milady. When the marksman heard the cruelty coming from her lips, he wondered how he ever could have thought allowing Athos to confront her was a good idea. He wasn't a stupid man, and he knew a part of Athos still loved her, but Aramis would do better to try to kill that spark than ever to allow these two to be together again. She was pure poison and would kill Athos one way or another.

Another faint hint of worry entered Athos' eyes has he reached out and seized her wrist. "Do not underestimate Rochefort. He is very dangerous and will kill anyone in his way."

The two stared at each other, their faces only inches apart, as he held her wrist. The air surrounding them felt electrified, like after a lightning bolt strikes the earth.

Her voice was low, threatening, yet with an undertone of seduction. "I never underestimate anyone and that includes you, Oliver d'Athos de la Fére. You'd do best to remember that. Always."

Here was the true master of seduction. She made Aramis and the rest of them look like babes in the woods. "I ask again, what do you want, Athos?"

Taking a deep breath and a step back, he allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips as he released her hand. "I need you to answer four simple questions."

She stared at him with suspicion. "What kind of game is this?"

He let his smile widen a touch. "You are correct. This is a game. One you are a master of, Anne. The art of seduction. I have a bet with my brothers." He watched her cringe at his word choice. "The bet is I couldn't convince a woman, of their choosing, to answer four questions."

She looked over his shoulder and saw the other three musketeers hovering in the background. "And what are these four questions?" she inquired haughtily, as she drew her gaze back to him.

"What is your name? Where were you born? How old are you? And what are you ashamed of?"

She studied him carefully before deciding on her answers. "The name I was given at birth was Alexia and I was born here in Paris. I am thirty years old. And what am I ashamed of?" She took a deep breath and moved closer to whisper in his ear. "The fact I once loved you. And some days, I still do."

Taking a step back, she said loud enough for the other three to hear, "I am ashamed of nothing." Reaching out a gloved hand, she patted her husband on the cheek. "You won."

Turning, she walked away and left him standing there in turmoil at her words. His three friends moved to his side, Aramis reaching him first and seeing the stunned look on his face.

"Athos," Aramis asked, reaching out to touch the man and bring him back from wherever his mind had led him. "What did she say to you?"

Suddenly, the stunned gaze was replaced with the mask of indifference Athos normally sported in public. "Nothing," he said gruffly, as he brushed off Aramis' hand and started to walk away.

He moved quickly through the crowded market square until he reached one of the streets that lead back to the garrison. His brothers were only a few steps behind him when they heard voice commanding them to halt. As one, they turned and faced the person hailing them who turned out to be the leader of a squad of Red Guards.

The leader took a few steps in front of his men directly to confront Athos. "You are Athos of the King's Musketeers, are you not?"

"I am," the musketeer replied, taking a few steps forward to meet the guard, hand resting lightly on his sword's hilt.

"The Lady de Winter has accused you of slander. What say you?" the guard demanded, his own hand resting on his grip.

"Milady slanders herself and needs no assistance from me."

"She demanded I seek justice for her."

The six Red Guards standing behind their leader drew their swords, the sound of metal ringing in the street. The other three musketeers answered in suit, clearing their weapons of their scabbards. The only people who hadn't drawn their weapons were the two principle players, who were engaged in a staring contest. Apparently, Anne had used her _skill_ to make another _deal_.

"You don't want to draw your weapon," Athos warned him coldly. "I will beat you." From some swordsmen that might be a hubris threat, but from Athos it was a fact.

His fate was sealed when the leader of the Red Guard drew his weapon, causing Athos to do the same and the fighting began.

Knowing Captain Treville's feelings on dueling with the Red Guard and trying to remember, technically, the Musketeers and the Red Guard were on the same team, the four musketeers set about to defeat their opponents, but not maim or fatally wound them.

"Nice parting gift from Milady," Aramis declared, when he was fighting with Porthos on his right and d'Artagnan on his left. The leader of the Red Guard and Athos were dueling slightly to the side of the main group.

Athos' mind wasn't really in the fight at hand, but rather it kept circling back to his wife's comment, unable to reconcile it in his mind. It was inconceivable, after all that occurred, that either of them could still have feelings for each other and yet they did?

So much on auto-pilot, when the tip of his opponent's sword left a shallow farrow in his side, he didn't notice any more than to step his game up a notch. Soon he had his opponent weaponless and backed up to a wall with his rapier pointed at the man's heaving chest.

Aramis finished disarming his last attacker before looking around and spotting Athos holding the leader of the Red Guard at sword point. A simple thrust by the musketeer would end the Red Guard's life.

"Athos. He's defeated. Let him go," Aramis commanded his brother, who showed no sign of comprehension.

Porthos was only a few steps away from Athos. Aramis gave him a glance and with surprising grace and speed, Porthos closed the distance between him and Athos, wrapped his strong arm around the thinner man's waist, below his raised sword, and flung the man sideways. Athos' sword did little more than lightly graze the Red Guard's chest as it was yanked away. The leader crumbled to the ground, not with injury, but in fear at how close he had come to dying.

Athos' sword had been knocked from his grip when he unexpectedly hit the ground and Porthos picked it up and handed it to d'Artagnan to hold. The three musketeers stared with concern at their fourth who was still on the ground. While the musketeers were otherwise occupied, the rest of the Red Guard used the opportunity to gather their leader and disappear.

Slowly, Athos rolled to his side and climbed to his feet, ignoring the offer of assistance from Porthos. His hand touched his side and came away red, much to his surprise.

"You're hurt," Aramis said with concern, as he drew closer to his brother so as to examine the wound. When he got near enough to see Athos' eyes, he saw a confused blankness in them that he highly doubted stemmed from the duel. "What did she say to you?" he asked, softly.

Athos focused his gaze on Aramis, as if searching for something in the depth of those chocolate orbs. "She said she once loved me. And maybe," his voice caught in his throat, "still does." Grimacing, he let his head drop to his chest. "How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?"

Wrapping his hand around the back of his dazed brother's head, Aramis drew the mass of dark waves against his shoulder and whispered in his ear. "Together. We will get through this together."

Being Athos, he didn't allow anyone to comfort him for long so when Aramis felt the swordsman pushing away, he let him go, to a point. Wrapping his arm around Athos' shoulders, he pressed the mentally and physically wounded man into walking. "Let's head back to the garrison so I can take care of that gash."

d'Artagnan handed Athos his sword and the four moved silently through the streets of Paris to their home. Once back at the garrison, they headed to Aramis' quarters where he examined, cleaned, and bandaged the shallow cut on Athos' side.

After he had cleared away his medical supplies, Aramis sat down on the bed next to Athos. "As much as it pains me to say this, Athos is the winner of the seduction challenge."

"Who'd ever thought," Porthos good-naturedly grumbled. "We're gonna be broke."

d'Artagnan looked at his mentor and though he didn't know what Milady had whispered in Athos' ear, he had a feeling his friend and brother hadn't really won anything. Somehow, that viper, who happened to be his wife, had found a new way to sink her poisonous fangs into him.

An unexpected knock had them all reaching for their weapons, until d'Artagnan opened the door to reveal their Captain.

"This is a surprise," Aramis said, as he and Athos rose from the bed to face Treville.

"I thought I'd change things up a bit." Treville's eyes strayed to the red speckled bandage wrapped around his lieutenant's midriff.

Aramis tracked his Captain's eyes and answered the question before it was asked. "A scratch. Nothing to worry about."

Folding his hands across his chest, he asked, "And how was this scratch received?"

Athos raised his head and stared directly at his Captain. "I was illegally dueling with the Red Guards."

"And I am sure it is safe to assume you weren't alone."

"No Captain," Porthos answered. "We were all there."

"Was anyone on their side injured?"

"No, Sir. We were very careful," Aramis replied in a somewhat cheerful fashion.

"Well," the Captain said sarcastically, as he let his arms drop to his side. "I'm very _pleased_ to hear that you are careful when you illegally duel with the Red Guard. It puts my mind at ease."

"He's being sarcastic, isn't he," Porthos whispered to d'Artagnan who nodded.

"So I can probably expect a summons from Rochefort in the morning?" Treville surmised, as his eyes swept over his four bedraggled musketeers.

"I would think that is a safe bet," Aramis concurred with his superior.

"Speaking of bets, what was this over? Come, gentleman," he demanded at their confused gazes. "I am sure this whole mess started out with some sort of bet."

"Actually," d'Artagnan said, "it had to do with you wanting us to learn new skills in our spare time. It was Aramis' turn."

"Dear God. Is that never going to stop haunting me?'' Treville had long ago chastised himself for making that suggestion. It had come back to haunt him time and time again. "What was the skill this time? How to pick a fight with the Red Guard? Trust me you all have that down pat."

"No. It was the wooing a woman. Or the art of seduction. Or persuasion. Maybe lying. It got a little confusing, Captain," Porthos confessed.

"But what was even more astounding," d'Artagnan piped up, "was that Athos won. He bested Aramis."

Treville's eyes sought confirmation from Aramis who nodded and simply stated, "Shocked me too. But he won, fair and square."

The Captain refocused his attention on his second, who had let his eyes drift back to the floor again.

When Athos felt his Captain's gaze upon him, he raised his head and solemnly swore, "The duel with the Red Guard was solely my fault, and I take full responsibility. I should be the only one punished in whatever manner you see fit."

"Well," the Captain drawled with a hint of a grin. "That was refreshingly honest. No beating around the bush. No dancing. No half-truths and lies. Therefore, I too shall be direct in my punishment. One week in the garrison's stockade."

Athos bowed his head again to show he accepted his sentence.

"Porthos. d'Artagnan. Escort Athos to his room where he is to leave his weapons and gather what he requires for his incarceration. Books are permitted."

Not happy with their Captain, the two musketeers did as they were told, escorting Athos from the room, leaving the Captain and Aramis alone.

Treville sighed after they had left. "You will explain to them later, so they won't lynch me in my sleep for being so harsh on Athos?"

"Of course, Captain."

Running a weary hand over his face, Treville asked, "Will one week be enough?"

"It's a good start. It will keep him from drinking himself to death. Give him time to assimilate what happened. I would have worried to have him so…distracted…while on duty."

While Aramis was worried about Athos being distracted, Treville was worried about the rest of the team trying to cover and protect the brooding man, which would lead to one of them getting seriously injured on duty.

"And tomorrow you will explain to me what has sent Athos over the edge again?"

"Of course, Captain. But how did you know something was wrong with him?"

"Simple. He didn't fight back. When he gets melancholy, he lets the dice fall where they may. Doesn't try to save himself, as if he is deserving of whatever fate befalls him. When he gets that way it scares me, Aramis."

"Me too."

They stood in silence for a few moments before the Captain turned to leave. Just before he walked out the door, he stopped and looked back at Aramis. "The art of wooing a woman?"

Aramis smiled and shrugged. "It sounded good at the time."

"It always does," the Captain said shaking his head. "It always does."


End file.
